B008GRP3XS EBOK

by Wiesiek Powaga

  "And you want to know about those demons which are rising in you higher and higher, holding you stronger and stronger ..."

  Father Suryn interrupted him:

  "My demons are my problem, my soul is my soul."

  The rabbi fastened his penetrating eyes on him and hissed:

  "I am you, you are me

  Father Suryn leapt off the stool and leaned over the table resting on his hands.

  "God!" he cried out, "what are you saying!"

  Reb Ishe smiled mysteriously as if all that he knew and thought about were forever beyond Father Suryn's comprehension. He tightened his thin lips with contempt. He waited for a while but the priest did not change his position, leaning on the table, full of hopeless despair and expectation. He could not utter another word. Only after a long pause did the rabbi speak again:

  "And you do not know what it's like when the demon which lived in a woman's body enters you and begins to tempt you with all these things you have till now regarded as the lowest form of depravity ... and which now will fill up your heart with an indescribable sweetness."

  Father Suryn slumped to his knees and hid his face in his hands. He was ravaged by emotions which he could not name. They swept over him like a hurricane. In vain did he recall all the exorcisms of St. Ignatius, in vain did he try to regain possession of himself, to understand himself in order to understand the rabbi, and as in the cabala, to free himself from his power by naming all his tricks; his head swam in a red mist and his heart was gripped by such terrible fear that he shook like a leaf in November.

  "Holy Mother," he kept repeating in his mind, "help me!"

  "You want to know something about demons?" the rabbi's dispassionate voice flowed above Suryn's head, "Let him enter your soul. Then you shall see what he is like and you shall learn all his nature and cunning. You shall see and you shall know his sweetness and his bitterness. And the first is the demon of pride Leviathan, and the second is the demon of uncleanliness Behemot, and the third is the demon of jealousy and all anger Asmodeus ... You shall see, you shall see if they won't sink their claws in your heart."

  Father Suryn leapt to his feet staring at the rabbi with horror and quickly backed to the door.

  "Oh!" he cried out, "cursed be thine head!"

  The rabbi smiled and stroked his beard.

  "You, Father, you know nothing. You walk in darkness and your ignorance is like the black cloak of night."

  "God is my witness!"

  "And I will teach you nothing," carried on the tsadick, "for you can no longer learn anything, and my knowledge is no longer yours."

  "You are I," whispered Father Suryn from the door.

  "Oh!" laughed the rabbi, "but the teachings of my Lord are no longer yours."

  He suddenly jumped to his feet, shut the book lying in front of him with a great clasp and slammed it on the table with one loud smack.

  "Out!" he cried in a terrible voice. All of a sudden Father Suryn found himself behind the door, where he bumped straight into Wolodkiewicz, whose small eyes were shining with curiosity.

  "Let's go, let's leave here," said the priest pulling Wolodkiewicz by the sleeve. Tripping and staggering along the walls he found his way to the stairs and down towards the door. Wolodkiewicz could hardly keep up with him.

  "Father, Father!" he called after the priest.

  But Father Suryn was in too much of a hurry, and only when they found themselves outside in the fresh air was he able to let out a sigh of relief. The heavy scent was still swirling in his nostrils. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his forehead.

  "God, have mercy upon me," he kept repeating.

  "Come, Father," said Wolodkiewicz, "come quick, you must drink a glass of vodka, you don't look yourself."

  They set off quickly down the narrow street towards the toll-gates. Suddenly, in front of them appeared Kaziuk. He must have noticed Suryn's pale face, for without a word he took him by the arm and quickly led him away.

  When they stopped in front of the inn, Father Suryn wanted to go to his room but Kaziuk held him back.

  "No, Father," he said, "come, drink some mead, it'll do you good."

  "Nothing will help me," moaned Father Suryn with heart-rending despair, "I am damned!"

  Never in his life had he felt such terrifying claws of fear sinking into his heart. He hooked onto Kaziuk's arm like a drunkard and stared into his eyes. Kaziuk turned his head away.

  "Nobody knows that," he said, "until the last moment."

  And as Wolodkiewicz had already disappeared into the inn Kaziuk whispered into Suryn's ear:

  "I know where Wolodkiewicz took you, Father. And didn't I tell you not to ask him about anything?"

  Father Suryn did not answer. In silence they went into the inn.

  Some time after midnight Father Suryn woke up suddenly, as if someone were shaking him, and immediately felt the Evil One sprawling inside him. He felt that the awakened Satan had grown more tangible and that he himself was swelling up with the substance of evil which flowed through him. And then he remembered the axe on which Wolodkiewicz had tripped when they first came into the inn. An overwhelming sense of the object's existence surged in him with such violence that he stretched himself as if trying to push away the cover of the night, and said:

  "So, you are here."

  "I am," answered Satan.

  "Will you possess me completely?"

  "Completely," said the Evil One.

  Now Father Suryn felt again that he was drowning. The black water filled the space around him and rose inside, bubbling in his chest, in his lungs, flowing out of his throat in a torrent of darkness and blood. His breath was short and muffled, coming from his mouth with great difficulty, like a whistling wind. His hands tore at the shirt on his chest.

  "Go away," he said gasping for air, "go away, don't torture me.

  Satan let go a little.

  "Go away, leave me completely," said Father Suryn, and gathering all his strength he pulled together his scattered thoughts and began to pray.

  "Oh, Lord, hasten to my aid," he sighed deeply from his heart.

  Satan let go even more. He moved away but emerged from the night and hung in the air in the form of a bat. Father Suryn wanted to cross himself but his hand was like lead.

  "Go away," he repeated.

  The devil giggled. His giggle was light, thin and it seemed to Father Suryn that it was he himself who was laughing so heartily, but this quiet sound filled the whole space completely. There was no room in the entire world for anything else, only this giggle. Ugh!

  "I shall go," whispered the bat, "I shall go. But if I am to leave you I shall have to go back to Mother Joanna. And then I shan't leave her, ever."

  Father Suryn shuddered. He remembered Mother Joanna's eyes looking at him as if she wanted to give him her soul, and he was overwhelmed by a terrible, inexpressible sorrow. He choked back the sobs and, breathing heavily, thought of this woman he had come to love. So the devil was to possess this gentle body again? He shuddered once more and his love suddenly rose and grew beyond night, beyond sorrow and Satan.

  "I shall go," said Satan, "I shall go gladly. I much prefer the female body."

  Father Suryn felt the knives of pain sinking into his heart, his legs, his belly.

  "Do not go," he whispered.

  "What do you mean, `do not go'? On the contrary, I am leaving you now, you shall be free, light and, as you say, saved. And Mother Joanna will be mine till the end of time. For ever."

  "Stay, take me."

  "But you are not wholly in my power yet. You are praying. I can leave you very easily."

  "Take me completely."

  "Give yourself to me for ever."

  "I do," whispered Father Suryn feeling his hair standing on end and his brow, his back, and his face chilled by cold sweat.

  "I will take you," said Satan and hovered lower over the priest's bed, "I will, but I need your agreement."

  "And you won't leave m
e?" Father Suryn questioned the darkness with hope and despair.

  "Never," whispered Satan, like a lover.

  "And you won't go back to Mother Joanna?"

  "Never," answered Satan with even greater passion.

  "And Mother Joanna shall be for ever free of devils?"

  "For ever," came the answer from the night.

  "And will she be saved?"

  A black cloud, soft as down, descended on Father Suryn's body. He threw his head back as if succumbing to a wave of pleasure, and listened to the voices which came to him from all sides, ringing in his ears, in his head, behind his eyes. They repeated in a chorus:

  "She will be a saint, a saint ..."

  The veil of darkness rose again above him and Satan said:

  "But it depends on you."

  "What am I to do?" asked Father Suryn with pain.

  "Give yourself to me for ever," said Satan.

  "What am I to do?" asked Father Suryn again and his head began to spin. He was flooded suddenly by his memories of childhood, the scent of hay spread all around him and he felt that it was the last time in this world that he was given to enjoy it, and that into this scent of old days, so beloved and dear to him, there seeped already another smell - God, how nauseating, sweet and horrible.

  "Do not call God," said Satan.

  "What am I to do?" asked the priest for the last time.

  "Give yourself to me for ever," repeated Satan and sat on the edge of the bed. At the same time Father Suryn felt the coldness of the floor under his feet.

  "Do you remember the axe?" whispered slowly the Evil One.

  "I do!" responded Father Suryn angrily, and suddenly it appeared before his eyes glistening, leaning against the chopping block in the hallway. "I do," he repeated and stood up.

  He stretched his hands in the darkness and made a few unsteady steps. At first he felt his way like a blind man, but then he found a strong supportive arm. He moved on with confidence and found the door.

  He entered the alcove.

  "It's here, it's here, it's here," repeated Satan in a soothing whisper, slowly leading him on.

  Thus Father Suryn crossed in silence the empty inn and found himself in the hallway. His hands felt for the axe; it was standing exactly where he had left it a few weeks ago. The main door creaked and the stable gate opened before him revealing a space deeper and blacker than the night, its dark silence broken from time to time by the horses' snorting. The axe and Suryn's arm were growing into one terrible, unerring tool. He felt his blood pouring from his veins into the shaft and throbbing in the blade with a tingling pulse. Satan pushed harder and harder, squeezing the priest's heart in an iron grip. Like the irritating buzz of a fly, around Father Suryn's head circled the whispered words:

  "For ever, for ever, for ever ..."

  Dostoyevski "Brothers Karamazov"

  Bruno Jasienski "A Tram Ballad"

  I

  When fourteen nervous hands - gloved and bare - managed finally to pull out from under the number 18 tram the blood-splattered body of Isolda Morgan, her legs cut just below the crotch and hanging on a few strands of tendon, all their owners suddenly experienced the unpleasant feeling of having perpetrated an indiscretion. The girl was twenty three, had thick chestnut hair strewn in disarray, a face of unsullied beauty and lovely, slender legs ending in hips almost below her breasts - an unmistakable sign of the exquisite in female form.

  What followed next happened all too quickly.

  An ambulance came and went, taking the whole incident with it. An hour later both legs were amputated and the patient, moved to the clinic's isolation ward, already slept with a heavy, dreamless and strength-giving sleep.

  2

  Berg, being at that time in another town, was informed of what had happened only the following day in a short, vague letter mentioning an accident and urging him to return immediately.

  The tumult on the platform, the slamming of doors, the smell of fresh paint and the flashing kaleidoscope of trees in the window's diaphragm, all strung like rosary beads on the thread of a numb, hollow anxiety, slipped deep inside him in a vertical line, like a crack. By the time he was listening to the doctor's dry, technical report he was perfectly calm.

  When the medical explanations were over he asked to see the patient.

  He entered the isolation ward with the doctor.

  The patient was awake.

  Berg stood at the foot of the bed. He knew he would have to say something, but at that moment he could think of nothing appropriate.

  (... Heavy, downy rows of chestnut trees, standing in a long, uncompromisingly straight perspective, a cool, moist taste on the lips pressed against other lips, the warmth of a little hand felt through suede gloves ... Do you remember? ...)

  He even tried to smile but then his eyes fell to the drooping line of the eiderdown modulating into an incomprehensible void below the hips.

  (... God, oh, God, I mustn't think ...)

  A sweet, sticky liquid rose in his throat.

  And the chestnut trees again, and the taste of moist lips, and the long, slender leg emerging from a sunny froth of skirts.

  (... shushhh, I mustn't cry ...)

  What a funny face the doctor has. His left moustache is drooping, like a beetle's whisker, and on the tip of his nose a tiny pimple.

  And then his eyes met hers - the eyes of a frightened, beaten dog (... they drowned its puppies - at father's, in the yard ...), as if begging for mercy, staring at him in tense expectation.

  He felt that under those eyes he was growing embarrassed, blushing like a schoolboy, that he had been standing there a good few minutes and that he would have to say something, and that he - he would say nothing.

  Suddenly, he felt like running away.

  (... people on the street, drozhkas, clatter, trams, trrr ...) Why does this doctor have such a funny face? Ali, here's the door handle ... Pull it. Now.

  He leapt down the steps, four at a time, until he found himself in the street among a motley, feverish crowd. He slumped down, red, burning, like a rug. Round, round infinity. The enormous dot of the sun above the inflated "i" of the city.

  People ran, walked, jostled, the cars whirred, the trams rang, spitting and swallowing new passengers at the stops, and passing him with the monotonous grinding of polished rails.

  3

  It was already late evening when the clinic's orderly Timote Lerche - a broad-shouldered old stager with a poxmarked face and rusty stubble - was approached by a young, well-dressed man who led him aside and rolling a fivehundred-franc note in his fingers, enquired if he could do him a favour.

  Timote Lerche assured the stranger that he was entirely at his disposal.

  Then the young man, grasping him in a friendly gesture under the arm, explained that he was a relative of Isolda Morgan, the victim of a tram accident, who had been brought here two days ago, and that he would like - if it was at all possible (here the banknote rustled with encouragement) - to take both of his cousin's amputated legs.

  Timote Lerche did not show the slightest surprise. He confirmed with a nod that he fully understood and was happy to oblige, provided of course that the required limbs had not been thrown away with other offal; and, showing the guest to a chair, he disappeared.

  He returned after twenty minutes, carrying under his arm a long box, carefully wrapped in grey paper. The parcel could easily be taken for a packet from a fashion store and the pink ribbon with which it was tied gave it even a touch of elegance.

  Timote Lerche handed the packet to the guest in silence. The five hundred francs were drowned in his overalls. He then enquired of the stranger if the latter would like a boy to deliver the packet home. The stranger however declined the offer and having placed the parcel under his arm left, accompanied by deep bows from the orderly and two porters.

  4

  In Berg's office the news of his misfortune spread quickly, and created around his person an atmosphere of whispers and silent sympathy. T
he city's power station, where he was one of the twelve engineers, offered him a month's leave. Berg refused. He turned up at work as usual, very early. In the evenings he stayed at home. Colleagues who tried to visit him after work, found a note on his door - "Please do not disturb."

  They knew that since his visit to the clinic he had not been back to see Isolda and explained it to themselves in various ways. Apart from that, his behaviour was quite as before, he talked and smiled. With time they simply came to the conclusion that his love for Isolda was not very great. This opinion was later generally accepted and soon they stopped worrying about him. Nevertheless, they were left with the elusive, mute reproach that he had come to terms with it so easily.

  5

  These were legs of provocative whiteness and singular length. Beginning with a tiny, narrow, finely arched foot with its appropriately slender ankle they erupted into an exquisitely formed calf, high and firm. From the small knee the white thigh of velvety sheen was covered with a net of those barely visible blue veins which give the female body its marble-like gravity.

  The little feet were still drowning in the shallow, patentleather shoes and the legs were still covered by black silk stockings to just above the knee, exactly as they had been at the moment when they had last carried their owner. The amputation had to be executed just below the groin and was carried out so quickly that there was no need to bare the legs. Placed on the sofa and nonchalantly crossed, their top ends wrapped generously in the blanket, they looked like the live limbs of a sleeping woman.

  Berg would sit with them for hours. He knew every muscle and called it by its name. Moving his hand along the quadriceps cruris his fingers caressed lightly the inside of the thigh, just where the groin is linked with the knee by a delicately drawn muscle gracilis, also known by the name of defensor virginitatis, the weakest of all muscles in the female leg. His whole tortured love for Isolda was concentrated now on her legs. He would lie on the sofa for hours, nestling his lips to the soft, fragrant skin of the pink thighs, just as he had done before, when they still belonged to her. Of Isolda herself he thought very rarely. Or more precisely, did not think at all. The visit to the clinic had left him with nothing but a feeling of estrangement and disgust. What could he care for that other truncated half of the woman, a formless trunk, tragic and disgusting? Cuddling up in sweet exhaustion to her wonderful legs, of which he was now the sole owner, he felt complete happiness.